


Wherein Jonathan Strange makes the acquaintance of the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair

by KoreArabin



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Bondage, Humiliation, Magic, Nudity, Other, Power Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you consider disgraceful specifically, Magician?  That you have been outwitted and seized by a superior magician, or that you are bound so effectively?  Or perhaps that you have been rendered so very vulnerable, laid out helpless before an unknown captor?  Who knows what I may decide to do to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was compelled to try to write something in this genre after reading FrancesHouseman's superb "Wherein Strange's Pride is Sorely Tested". If you haven't read it, please do. This is my comparatively crappy attempt - hope you enjoy!

Strange returns to consciousness with more indignation than fear. Being drugged (?) and kidnapped (?) are not experiences one would normally anticipate to be within the ambit of a gentleman, and his present situation is especially galling in view of the progress he has made recently in enhancing his mastery of the magical arts.

He tries to open his eyes. Nothing. For a moment he panics, and then realises that he has been blindfolded. As he searches frantically through his memory (damn to the deuce his lack of books to consult!) for a spell to deal with undesirable and irksome items such as blindfolds, a voice speaks.

"Back with us, Magician? Good.” A man's voice, low and grating. Strange has an odd feeling he has heard it somewhere before, but he cannot identify it. The memory seems to dance just outside of his power of recollection, like a fragment of something half-remembered from a dream.

"What is going on here?" he demands.

He tries to move, only to discover that he is strapped down securely. He also appears to be lacking some of his clothing. 

“You have something that I desire, Magician. Something that will not, of its own volition, be mine. I do not care to have my desires impeded in such a manner. And so I turn to you.”

Strange struggles against his bonds, to no avail. He appears, as far as he can ascertain, to be restrained by a truly unreasonable number of – straps?

“Faerie vine, Magician. Quite, quite unbreakable. But by all means continue to struggle – it is most amusing to watch.”

Strange hisses in frustration. “Faerie? Who are you, and what is this “something” of mine you desire? I am sure that we can negotiate, but I am unwilling to do so when treated in such an ungentlemanly fashion.”

A cool hand strokes an unruly curl back from his forehead, and Strange jerks his head away instinctively, gasping as sharp nails score unexpectedly across his skin. 

“ _What_ are you?”

“Despite your disdain, I _am_ a gentleman, only not one of your _human_ purported gentlemen.”

_Not human? Ah._

“If you are a gentleman, release me and let us discuss whatever it is that has so aggrieved you, like gentlemen. I say again, I shall not be treated in such a disgraceful fashion.”

There is a sharp burst of breath, rather like a suppressed laugh, before the cool voice grinds on.

“What do you consider disgraceful specifically, Magician? That you have been outwitted and seized by a superior magician, or that you are bound so effectively? Or perhaps that you have been rendered so very vulnerable, laid out helpless before an unknown captor? Who knows what I may decide to do to you?”

Strange swallows, then sets his jaw. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair smiles to himself. "It hardly matters now, does it? You are in no position to do anything about it, whatever I may do. Is that not the case, _sir_?”

Strange struggles again, but the magical bonds do not give an inch.

“Damn it, enough of this! Tell me your business and get on with it, or let me go. I will not lie here simply to be made a fool of.”

This time the laugh is unmistakable.

"You'll do as I please, and so shall I."


	2. Chapter 2

“And just now, it pleases me to watch you squirm, Magician.”

_How does one respond to that?_

Strange purses his lips and sets his jaw. This impudent faerie will derive no satisfaction from Jonathan Strange.

But then, even as he prepares to stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood, the magic vines holding him prisoner begin to move. Strange cannot hold back a gasp as what feel to be thinner tendrils of vine begin to creep up his body and encircle his neck, tightening as they curl across his throat.

“Now, Magician, what do you say to that?”

Strange hisses as a tendril which has clearly sprouted _thorns_ prickles at his cheek. The barb presses deeper and cuts, and a rivulet of blood trickles down to stain Strange’s neckerchief. 

“Why are you doing this? To me?”

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair smiles. “Does there have to be a reason? Because I can. Because your presence, your _existence_ , keeps me from what I desire."

"What do you desire?"

"Do not concern yourself with matters beyond your abilities, Magician. All that need concern you here and now is my desire to see your _eyes_."

With an audible susurration, the thorns on the tendril immediately multiply and it coils upwards, gliding creepingly beneath the blindfold, before ripping it violently away.

Strange blinks as his eyes become accustomed to the somewhat opaque half-light of his surroundings. 

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair raises a languid index finger, his demeanour dripping disinterest. The barb-laden vine tendrils multiply with astonishing alacrity, winding themselves up and around and over Strange's mouth, until all that can be glimpsed of the magician's face is that part lying between his nose and his forehead.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair motions aside, and a chair, its back and seat rendered in iridescent richly embroidered scenes of other-worldly _divertissement_ appears, and is set down before the stricken Strange. Strange struggles hard against his restraints, his groans of discomfort at the thorns piercing the tender skin of his lips muffled by the sheer volume of verdure wrapped around his face. 

"Oh, yes. Those eyes! How very expressive and, dare I say, so very _dilated_ in the face of these particular trials."

With that, the gentleman with the thistle-down hair adds, _sotto voce_ , "And now, Magician. Let our entertainments properly begin."


	3. Chapter 3

With a flick of his fingers, the gentleman with the thistle-down hair loosens the vines binding Strange so tightly, and he shakes them from him in disgust, staggering unsteadily to his feet.

At first, Strange does not notice the slow coiling in the scenery surrounding them. On being freed from the faerie vine (and in particular that smothering his face), his first instinct is to ready himself for further assaults upon his person. And so, he pulls himself up to his not inconsiderable height, uses his torn shirtsleeve to wipe the blood from his lacerated lips, and locks eyes with the gentlemen with the thistle-down hair.

“My word, you are a spirited one, aren’t you? I begin to scent a hint of what attracts her to you. Only the merest soupçon, mind you. I detect very little else to recommend you.”

Strange spits blood-flecked saliva. It is not in the least the most gentlemanly conduct, but allowances should surely be made for the situation within which he finds himself.

“This is becoming really most tiresome. I have nothing to say to you, sir, and I have no interest in hearing anything you may wish to say to me, so I am afraid that this meeting is now at an end. To which end, I wish to return to Shropshire without further delay.”

Strange follows the gentleman’s gaze as he glances aside. The coiling, vague shadows slowly dissimilate from the grey, dreary gloom of their current location until they become solid enough to distinguish from the background. The shadows appear to be living columns of near-translucent vine, with shimmering, gossamer-like patches of leaves in places, moving with a strange fluid grace, to form featureless, androgynous humanlike figures. 

From where he is standing, Strange can make out perhaps five or so of them, their surfaces coiling slowly, standing out in more details only when they move. Strange feels a similar coiling unease unfurl in the pit of his stomach as two or three of the figures slowly begin to move in closer towards him. 

The figures are much of a height with Strange, and of a similar build, if not a little more bulky. They begin to circle him, their surface coils and swirls accelerating as they do so, until Strange can only trace the movements of any one of them at any one time. Suddenly, one of them stops behind him and strong, thick, shimmering _arms_ slide smoothly around Strange’s chest, holding him in place as the two remaining figures close in around him. 

The figures dissolve and reassemble, leaves rustling almost imperceptibly as _arms_ , _hands_ and _fingers_ curl round Strange's wrists and ankles to form sylvan manacles, and around his throat to collar him. Slowly, inexorably, the faerie shackles force Strange's limbs to comply with their apparent desire to have him held with his arms bound together behind his back and legs apart, leaving their prisoner struggling in his restraints. 

One of the two figures hitherto in the background coils forward, halting abruptly before Strange's twisting body, folding down and in on itself until one might say it is kneeling before him. Strange jerks hard in his bonds as the figure’s _fingers_ brush the fabric of his breeches, toying with the buttons of the fall front. A shimmer of movement, and the buttons fall to the ground with a quiet patter. Strange gasps aloud as the slim _fingers_ push aside the fall front, slip past the open flap and begin to explore the inside of his breeches.


	4. Chapter 4

Strange gasps and struggles as the cool _fingers_ brush teasingly over his length, delving further into his breeches to cup his testicles, rolling them gently and stroking back along his perineum.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair coughs pointedly. “Please, my dears, do not be coy. The metaphorical cheeks of your sylvan forebears would not colour at the disrobing of a dull English magician.”

The kneeling figure’s other _hand_ slides into Strange’s breeches and, with a wrench and a loud ripping sound, the fabric is torn apart and the tattered remnants of the garment fall to the ground.

Strange fights with all his strength against the vines, his face white with anger and humiliation.

“Damn you, sir! Let me go this instant! This is – this is too much, sir! Damn you - such treatment cannot be borne!”

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair examines his fingernails.

“Yes, yes, all very tiresome, Magician. I had thought to torment you with the most exquisite concoction of pleasure and humiliation, but now I see that I am altogether too gracious. In view of your behaviour and, if I may say so, most _ungentlemanly_ language, I believe some chastisement is appropriate.”

Settling back in his chair, and gesturing to the faerie vine figures, the gentleman snaps. “Disrobe our boorish Englishman. Restrain him as you see fit. Punish him.”

Strange’s remaining clothing is torn away as quickly and efficiently as his breeches. Two more coiling, sylvan figures move forwards to join the others and together they arrange him, disregarding his increasingly desperate struggles with grimly inexorable force. When they are finished, Strange is bent forwards at the waist, arms bound tightly together behind his back, legs spread and backside presented helplessly for his punishment.

The first stroke of the vine across his buttocks forces a startled yelp from Strange. The vine is thick and solid, like creeper, and leaves a livid wheal across the smooth, creamy expanse of Strange’s backside. The whipping continues until Strange’s buttocks and upper thighs are striped with red and he is sagging in his restraints.

“Enough!” The gentleman with the thistle-down hair raises his hand. 

“Now, Magician, I trust that you have learned your lesson. Insolence and disrespect shall not be tolerated.”

Strange lifts his head, his eyes blazing with wrath and indignation. 

“Do your worst and be damned, sir. Respect is earned, not demanded, and you, sir, are a blackguard and a damned knave.” 

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair purses his lips and motions to the faerie figures. 

“Continue.”


	5. Chapter 5

The faerie figures drag Strange back into an upright stance, with his arms still secured tightly behind his back, and his legs spread. Strange winces as fronds of faerie vine begin to massage his tender backside, but the touches are gentle and disperse a therapeutic and cooling salve to his wounds.

One of the figures again detaches itself from the gloomy surroundings and kneels before Strange. This time the cool enchanted _fingers_ do not hesitate. They glide up and over Strange's manhood and stroke. Strange groans and struggles but, before long he is twisting in his restraints, his _cock_ red and swollen and dripping, thrusting forwards into the curling vine. 

Strange's groans are cut off by a thinner sylvan gag, one which curls itself into his panting mouth, coiling around his tongue and for all the world _sucking_ at it.

The unrelenting stimulation of his manhood continues until Strange suddenly stiffens, his cock shooting pearly strands of issue over himself and over the foliage of the figure kneeling before him, his cries muffled by the gag curling tight around his mouth.

"Oh my. What a veritable mess you have made of yourself, Magician. I rather think you should attend to your toilet before we continue."

The faerie vine gagging Strange retreats, rustling down over his body and the foliage of the kneeling figure and scooping up stripes of ejaculate. The vine coils back up to Strange's mouth, which he promptly snaps shut, clamping his lips together tightly.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair smiles.

"Foolish Magician. Why do you persist in presuming that there is anything _you_ can do, in your doltish, boorish stupidity, to impede what _I_ wish to do to you?"

Thick tendrils of vine tighten around Strange's neck, squeezing until he is forced to open his mouth in an attempt to gasp for air. Immediately the faerie gag, smeared with Strange's issue, forces its way between his lips, making him retch and choke as it spreads it over his tongue and palate.

Strange groans as the gag coils again around his tongue, and the stimulation of his cock resumes. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair settles back in his chair and crosses his legs.

"Your little sounds of distress are quite delightful, Magician. Who knows that I may spare you your eternal night and so very many years of solitude and darkness, and instead give you an equal measure of pleasure in humiliation?"

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair locks eyes with his captive as Strange moans as he thrusts helplessly into the swirling faerie vine engulfing his swollen manhood.

"And the humiliation of that pleasure is so _very_ humiliating and yet so very pleasurable, is it not? But do not dismay, _sir_ , there is so very much more to come."


End file.
